Princess Mary awarded the prizes. The king and Charles Brandon both came and knelt before the stand, flecked with mud, while she offered them each a ruby. Three or four other men were distinguished for their valour or cunning: Henry Courtenay, George Boleyn, Allessandro Campeggio and Rafe Danvers.
Allessandro bowed low, offering his performance to the queen. The princess placed a diamond in his hands, and the young man seemed almost overcome with emotion, hastening across the field to show his prize to his father.
Rafe was the last to approach, and Thomasin watched him with a quiet sense of satisfaction, only to tear her gaze away at the last moment, so he would not see her interest. It felt wrong to encourage him. Only last night she had avoided his wordsand kisses, unsure of the timing. The princess awarded him a small silver dagger, and the stand applauded as he bowed before her. She sensed him looking towards her again, but she busied herself rearranging her skirts.
After the tournament had finished, a spray of coloured fire shot into the sky above the palace.
“Look!” cried the princess, pointing upwards. “Fireworks!”
Showers of gold and red exploded above the lists, vivid against the white clouds. They were followed by rockets in blue and silver, shooting up higher and higher, before making the crowd jump with their banging.
The smell of sulphur drifted past them on the wind.
“I love fireworks,” Princess Mary went on. “Mother told me about those they had in France, at the field of cloth of gold, where the huge salamander flew through the sky.”
More sprays of gold and silver filled the air, with all faces turned upwards. The colours fragmented, spread, and travelled slowly down through the air like falling stars.
“It’s amazing,” said the princess. “This Christmas is the best ever, isn’t it, Mother?”
Catherine turned to her daughter with a gentle smile, warmed to see her lost in such simple enjoyment. Then her eyes met Thomasin’s and a look passed between them. Both knew that the princess’s innocent pleasure would not last forever.
The group headed back towards the palace, a long stretch of colour moving through the snow. Thomasin looked forward to the fires that burned in the grates, the spread of food that would be served, the comfort and mirth. As Catherine passed through the inner court, towards the great staircase, Thomasin slipped away to check on her parents; she had expected them to appear at some point during the tournament, but the seatsbehind her uncle Matthew and Thomas More had remained empty throughout. Perhaps they were resting after the stress of Cecilia’s departure.
Richard Marwood’s voice bade Thomasin enter, and she pushed open the door to find her mother and father standing wearily before the hearth.
“You did not attend the tournament?” she asked, hastening inside. “I had thought to see you before now.”
Sir Richard frowned, barely able to conceal his frustration. “She is refusing to leave.”
“Cecilia? She is still here?”
“Yes. She is refusing to leave court. She has taken to bed, our bed, saying that she is unwell.”
“But if she really is unwell…” began Lady Elizabeth.
“Nonsense — it is a mild cold, nothing more, if it is even that! It is a trick so that she may remain here. What can I do? I cannot physically remove her from the bed myself, and she will not take orders from me now she is a married woman — as she keeps reminding us.”
Thomasin bit her lip. They should have expected something like this. It was not like Cecilia to give in so swiftly, so obediently, not when she had come so far. She was hoping her delaying tactic might soften the hearts of those who desired her absence. “You have sent for the doctor?”
“There is no one to come out to the palace in this weather, and I hardly want to ask the king’s physician, given the circumstances.”
“Princess Mary has a Spanish doctor. His name is Vittorio. I could ask him to visit her, and I am sure he will be able to pronounce her quite well enough to travel.”
“Or else offer her some cures,” added Lady Elizabeth. “We should not be too hasty in our judgement.”
But Sir Richard and Thomasin, who were wise to Cecilia’s tricks and games, made no reply.
“I would appreciate that, if the Spanish gentleman does not mind attending.”
“I will go and ask at once. I will return and let you know, either way.”
Having little to concern himself regarding Princess Mary’s health and spirits, the white-bearded Dr Vittorio was more than willing to attend upon Cecilia, taking up his cape and bag at once. Thomasin moved with him along the chilly corridors, although the doctor’s stiff legs meant that they travelled less quickly than they might, and he was keen to stop and point out a carving, or an embroidered hanging, which Thomasin realised was his means of gathering his breath.
As they approached the doors to the Marwoods’ room, angry footsteps hastened up behind them and Anne Boleyn whirled past on a wind of fury, closely followed by her sister Mary. Thomasin was almost knocked against the wall.
“Which is your parents’ room?” Anne demanded, with flashing eyes. “This door?”
Thomasin stood dumfounded, but Anne did not wait for a reply; instead she rapped upon the wood and then pushed her way inside.
